


where the grass is really greener

by khalasaar



Category: Girl Meets World
Genre: F/F, Fluff, THIS. this is it.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khalasaar/pseuds/khalasaar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maya's desperate run for ice cream is interrupted in what is possibly the weirdest way ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where the grass is really greener

For a brief, brief second, Maya’s one thought is: _I am getting hit on._

Now. She doesn’t know anyone who has ever gotten hit on by having someone sing California Girls at them, at a truly terrifying volume, from a convertible in the next lane over. Nor has she ever seen a douchebag cat-caller with hair as nice of the driver of said convertible. But in the moment, stuck at an endless red light, and feeling sort of brainwashed by the sheer _loudness_ of her suitor, Maya can’t process anything beyond _I am getting hit on._

She leans backward very slowly, like an animal being hunted, and says as much to Farkle. He’s stretched out across her backseat rifling through a science textbook, or was, before the person started singing: now he’s looking over the edge of the book with an incredulous smile, gaze flicking from the stranger to Maya and back again. “No, you’re not,” he says. His eyebrows are raised so high they’ve gotten lost in his bangs. “That is _not_ how you hit on someone.”

“Listen,” Maya scoffs, affronted. “ _I_ know it isn't, but apparently-“

“FINE, fresh, fierce, we got it on lock! West coast represent, now put your hands up!” The driver in the convertible sucks in a breath so loud Maya can hear it from the across the street, then bursts into laughter and starts to belt, “WOAH-OH-OH-OH, OH, WOAH OH WOAH OH OH-“

“Oh. My. God,” Farkle whispers, open-mouthed with shock. “Is she?”

Maya glances over. The girl in the front seat has long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail and is wearing a Knicks cap; there’s a crazy-bright smile on her face, and she seems to be laughing through her singing, in conjunction with pulling the most dorky dance moves Maya has ever seen. In the passenger seat, a tall, blondish boy in a letterman jacket is cowering behind her, obviously trying not to laugh, and looking extremely apologetic. He waves, meets Maya’s eye, and manages to mouth _I’m sorry!_ before the girl catches him in the act and lands a punch on his arm.

Then she leans over the open window, hair swinging over her shoulder, and shouts, “CALIFORNIA GIRLS, WE’RE UNFORGETTABLE, DAISY DUKES, BIKINIS ON-“ 

“This is not real,” Maya says.

“SUN-KISSED SKIN, SO HOT, WE’LL MELT YOUR POPSICLE, WOAH OH OH OH, OH, OH WOAH-“

Maya bursts out laughing, finally, and opens her mouth to say something back - but then the light turns green, and the convertible peels away, the girl looking back to give her one final wave before she gets lost around the next corner.

***

“Oh, my, God,” Maya says. “It’s you.”

Ten minutes ago, she and Farkle finally pulled into the Safeway parking lot, still stunned by events of their ride over. When the shock wore off and Farkle stopped laughing, they split up to shop. Maya is after a pint or four of her gourmet ice cream, and Farkle said he just needed to get some stuff for a home experiment - _some stuff_ being, apparently, an entire cart full of baking soda. When Maya asked where he got the money to buy a grocery store out of leavener, he’d shrugged, throwing another box into their basket, and said, “Alchemy.” So she’d left him to it.

And now, ten minutes later, Maya is standing in the dairy aisle, saying “Oh my God, it’s you,” and, shortly afterwards, “That’s my fucking ice cream.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s my ice cream,” she repeats. The culprit is holding her coveted ice cream, the churro-flavored kind, a pint of it in each hand. She stares it down for a long minute, practically salivating at the familiar sight. The face of the girl from the drive here is right in front of her, looking supremely jittery, ice cream clutched to her chest like a newborn baby. 

“Give it to me,” Maya warns, raising an eyebrow threateningly, “and I won’t tell anyone what you did at that red light on 5th.”

“No way!” The girl blanches when she mentions the red light incident, but pulls the ice cream closer to her. Up close, her eyes are huge, a pretty dark brown, and her hair is falling around her face in thin wisps. She’s ethereally pretty, even in the fluorescent light, but Maya is trying to focus on getting back her goddamn ice cream and not the fact that she could paint that face forever and not get tired of it.

“Do you do that to a lot of people?” Maya asks, putting a hand on her hip. “Just straight up yell dumb pop songs out of your window at them?”

“No,” the girl answers, biting her lip. “Just cute girls who look like they need a distraction.”

Maya stares at her.

“No, okay, but seriously.” The girl forces a laugh, pushing hair back from her face. A honeycomb necklace flashes silver on her chest. “The red light incident, we don’t have to, um, tell anyone about that.”

“I don’t have to,” Maya agrees, shaking her head as she tries to function, “but I definitely _want_ to.“

“Please!”

“Fine. Give me that.” Maya reaches out to snag the ice cream; the girl jerks back instinctually and pulls it closer. “Hey. Give it.”

“I got it first.”

“What are you, five? Why do you need two?”

“Why do _you_ need two?”

“I _am_ five. Hand it over, Katy Perry.”

The brunette rolls her eyes, then grudgingly passes her one of the pints. There’s a warm space on the cardboard where her hand used to be, and Maya stares at it for a long time before looking up and saying, “You know, as a thanks for this, I could give you my number.”

“As a thanks,” the girl repeats, deadpan.

“Or, you know-“ Maya blushes furiously. “Just because.”

The brunette grins.

Maya comes dancing into the baking aisle three minutes later with a pint of ice cream and _Riley: 5303414406_ written on her wrist in black marker. When she finds Farkle, she hits him on the shoulder and laughs, “She was _so_ hitting on me.”

**Author's Note:**

> y'all want me to write something specific, send it out to philtaatos.tumblr.com. (i post lots of updates and ideas there too.) or send other things! whatever's on your mind. I love making friends and hearing from you guys.
> 
> comments/kudos/criticism is always very very appreciated. thank you for reading (& for those of you that have been around for a while, sticking with me). i love you! :)


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